


Put your arms around somebody else (and don't punish yourself)

by Elisexyz



Series: Looking too closely [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fights, Past Grant Ward/Kara Lynn Palamas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-24 22:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17713154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: “Oh, Lord. You pushed the Kara button,” Jemma realizes, and her tone doesn’t make Skye feel any better about her chances of keeping a civil relationship with Grant, at all.In which Skye inadvertently pushes too hard and it goes as well as you can imagine.





	Put your arms around somebody else (and don't punish yourself)

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Honestly, it's been a while since I've last written something for this series, but I've received a lovely comment from OnyxBird (if you're reading, hi! *waves*) and it reminded me that I had this written down somewhere and just in need of some editing. I hadn't published it because I wasn't too satisfied with it, but then I thought "eh, why not".  
>  I can't promise when/if there will be more to this series, but I hope you'll enjoy this nonetheless!

“And I’m supposed to trust that you won’t run away with it,” Grant says, slowly, raising his eyebrows in a way that conveys just how _much_ he doesn’t trust it.

Which, fair, she started their relationship by trying to con him – to which he responded in a very disproportionate way, though –, but she hasn’t been anything but honest since then, and their partnership is working extremely well. So, no, not that fair after all.

“It’s not _that_ much cash and you are a super spy, I’m sure that even if I did—which I _won’t_ —” she immediately clarifies, when she meets his glare. “You totally could track me down.”

“I’m not giving you anything unless you tell me what it’s for,” he says, crossing his arms and leaning back slightly, crooking his head in her direction as if he needed to _try_ to look like he’s scolding her.

“It’s not for drugs,” she jokes, throwing in a grin and a shrug. “Or, at least, I don’t think so,” she adds, as an afterthought, because she loves Miles, she truly does, but neither of them has ever been too well-adjusted and since _she_ ended up making a living as a con woman she shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss that he could have gotten hooked on heroine or some other shit.

Maybe she should check for holes in his arms before giving him anything. And search his place, if he has one.

“You don’t _think_?” Grant echoes, and of course he sounds less and less thrilled by the minute. Which is actually quite impressing, considering that when he found her at his door he looked like the Grinch on Christmas morning. She probably should have called, but annoying him is fun.

“It’s not for me,” she clarifies. “It’s for Miles, my ex-boyfriend.”

Grant blinks, then an amused grin twists his lips. “So you have an ex-boyfriend who grills you for money. Cute.”

“He doesn’t _grill_ me for money,” she protests, offended. He makes her sound like a gullible victim. “It’s a one-time thing, he just needs some help. He’s an hacker like me, not exactly a stable job.”

“Of course he is,” Grant scoffs, but he’s giving her no sign that he’s willing to give her the damn money.

“Come on, you’ll just have to pay me early and I’ll work for free until we are even,” she tries. Maybe she should try with the heart strings. Whether Grant _has_ heart strings to pull to begin with or not is still an open debate, but he does have his moments so it’s worth a try. He might say yes just to make her stop. “Please, don’t you have some sympathy?”

His expression yells ‘Not even a little’, but she’s not about to give up. Searching for common ground is key.

“I’m just trying to help a friend out— don’t you have _any_ embarrassing exes that you could take pity on if need arises?”

Grant, usually so controlled in every movement he takes, lets a twitch show. It’s a brief flash of she doesn’t even know exactly _what_ , but it’s a reaction, so it’s a victory.

“You do!” she rejoices, a grin spreading on her face.

“I don’t,” he says, sharply, glaring at her. He’s not getting out of it that easily. Forget the money, she wants the juicy gossip now: Grant _loves_ his lone-wolf act, if there’s a story there – and she’s sure there is –, she needs to ear it. She’s sure that Jemma knows, and she takes a mental note to complain to her about keeping her in the dark about important matters like this one.

“Ah-ah, don’t give me that, I can see I hit a nerve,” she insists, taking a step forward. He doesn’t move, but his stance is not as confident now. “Come on, out with it. Was it a nasty break-up? Was she the stalkey type? Considering what you do for a living, that wouldn’t be surprising. Or was it a man? I don’t judge.”

He just stares blankly as she fires her questions, then she barely has a second to realize that his expression doesn’t actually resemble his usual frown and that she might have made a mistake here, when he growls, eyes firmly into hers: “She drowned when her lungs filled up with blood.”

…Ops.

“Ah,” is the only thing that she can muster up as an answer.

_Alright_ , she probably should have taken that possibility into account, but— what the hell. No matter what the guy does for a living, it’s difficult to picture relationships that end in gruesome deaths outside of movies, and— well, shit.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” she stresses, her stomach twisting in guilt. He’s still staring at her, and for a guy who’s just been forced to share his girlfriend’s horrific death he looks pretty calm. Which doesn’t mean _much_ , not when it’s him, and if anything it makes her feel even worse because whatever is going on inside his head must be though to repress. “I—I didn’t mean to push.” Well, she _did_ , but she didn’t think she was pushing for this kind of thing.

She’s one step away from grabbing a lamp and auditioning for the role of Dobby The Free Elf in _Harry Potter_.

“Yeah,” he snorts, without any humour and clearly not at all interested in her apology.

She has another ‘sorry’ on the tip of her tongue when he abruptly turns around. For a second, she thinks that he’s going to head to his bedroom, close the door and yell at her to show herself out, instead he goes for a drawer and pulls out a bunch of cash. He silently counts it before handing about half of it to Skye.

“Here, take it,” he says, when she dumbly stares at him. She obeys, even if she’s positive that he’s doing it merely to get her out of his house.

His tone is perfectly normal, it’s not _impolite_ , but it feels cold as ice. She doesn’t know if it’s suggestion or if there really is a difference in the way he’s looking at her. He seems so detached that if she dropped dead at his feet he probably would just step over her and leave her to rot on the floor. 

“Grant—” she tries again, unsure of what to say as that all too familiar _you fucked up, pack up your things, you are done_ feeling creeps up under her skin, but she’s interrupted.

“You have your money and I have work to do, so—” He gestures briefly to the door.

Skye stares for a few seconds more, before letting out a sigh and nodding, her eyes dropping on the floor under his gaze. “Call me if you need me?” she offers, looking up again.  
“Sure,” he says, dismissively. It’s not the usual annoyance covering up a touch of affection: he totally sounds like he’s saying ‘just get out of my face already’ and he means every word.

Her eyes sting as she obeys.

 

 

Skye gives herself some time to freak out over it in complete loneliness, even if the urge to call Jemma and get some support on this, now that she finally _has_ someone to offer it to begin with, is killing her. Mostly she just needs to wait until she’s safely trapped in her van to talk it out, because she’s positive that elaborating something more coherent than ‘oh my god, I fucked up so bad, I’m so sorry’ would drive her to tears.

So, when she’s finally lying down on her bed, she dials Jemma’s number.

“ _Hello?”_

“I fucked up big time,” she announces, skipping the small talk because she doesn’t think she could stand it right now. The picture of Grant’s stone-cold face _won’t_ leave her, and it makes her feel like she’s never going to laugh again in her _life_.

Jemma pauses for a second. “ _How big?”_ she investigates, probably fishing for more information so that she can be an _optimist_ about it.

“I think he would have loved to shoot me,” she complains, her tone definitely whiny. Which makes her feel even _worse_ , because she has no right to _whine_ , but at the same time she can’t stand pushing it all down and keeping her tone neutral.

She wonders how Grant managed not to yell at her face. Yelling would have probably been preferable: she can handle yelling, but rejection and ‘we are so done’ faces— not so much.

“I think he will never speak to me ever again, Jemma,” she adds, her voice quivering a little as she voices that all too real fear. The money he handed her might just be her pay-off to disappear from his life forever.

“ _Come on, it can’t be that bad_ ,” Jemma reasons, her tone light but sympathetic. “ _Grant barks a lot, but he’s not cruel. What happened?”_

“We were talking about Miles and— and then I started _pestering_ him about— you know, about exes, if he had one, and—”

“ _Oh, Lord. You pushed the Kara button_ ,” she realizes, and her tone doesn’t make Skye feel any better about her chances of keeping a civil relationship with Grant, at _all_.

“I didn’t get a name, but— I guess,” she says, inhaling sharply as she rubs her eyes with her free hand. “What do I _do?_ He hates me now.”

“ _No, no, he doesn’t_ hate _you_ ,” Jemma immediately corrects.

“You didn’t _see_ him, his eyes were like— they were totally _dead_ , I wouldn’t have felt colder if he had dropped a bunch of ice in my shirt.”

“ _He’s just spooked_ ,” she insists, calmly. “ _He doesn’t like talking about it, and he doesn’t want people knowing about it_.”

“He strikes me as the kind of guy that holds onto grudges forever,” Skye mumbles, trying to sink lower into her pillow. Maybe she could just turn around and try to suffocate into the damn thing, so her big mouth won’t do any more damage. “And he’d be right to, I was such an _ass_.”

“ _You didn’t know, and he’ll remember soon enough_ ,” Jemma assures. “ _He likes you, he won’t be mad forever_.”

“I need to find a ‘Sorry I taunted you about your murdered girlfriend’ card,” she tries to joke, but it comes out as joyful as a damn funeral. Which is fitting, because it’s time to bury yet another positive relationship. She doesn’t even know why she’s surprised, since her jobs with Grant, the game nights at Jemma’s place, the occasional shared meals and everything else were starting to feel a lot like home. “I didn’t want to screw this up,” she adds, her voice thin and her eyes stinging very insistently.

Well, at least this time she’ll be sent away for a real screw up, not for something like dropping a decanter.

“ _Every relationship has its up and downs, Skye_ ,” Jemma says, gently. “ _It doesn’t mean that it’s all over. And even if he decided not to speak with you ever again, which he_ won’t _, you’d still have me_.”

She lets out a small laugh, her vision getting too blurry to see and her eyes burning like hell. It’s unfair that tears are _salty_ , she doesn’t need physical pain on top of everything else.

“Yes, I know,” she says. “Thanks.” It’s sincere, for the most part, but she’s also painfully aware that Jemma has known Grant longer and that what they have doesn’t even _begin_ to compare to that easy friendship that Jemma offered her, and that even if she’s so sweet and patient the day is going to come when Skye will piss her off as well.

Until then, though, at least she’s not alone.

 

 

 

She manages to resist two days before she’s at his door again.

Grant didn’t call or email her, he went completely radio silent, which is understandable and in line with her assumption that he just wants nothing to with her anymore because she doesn’t know when to shut up, but it’s driving her crazy anyway.

She needs to at least apologize again and ask him how she’s going to pay him back if he doesn’t want to have anything to do with her anymore. She could keep working with him and limit everything to email communication— if he can stand talking to her that way, that is.

It takes a while for her to work out the nerve to ring the bell, her hand gripping the bottle so tight that her knuckles probably went white. Her heart is beating at a very worrying speed as she fights the urge to turn around immediately and run away to avoid reality undeniably crashing onto her.

She can still run, he hasn’t opened the door yet, and even if he saw her running away he certainly wouldn’t chase her— maybe he’ll just shoot her on sight. Would he even bother opening the door? Depends on how much he hates her and how much he loves the door.

Before she can decide whether getting shot in the head would be a good or bad thing at this point, Grant decides not to leave her hanging anymore.

“Need something?” he asks, the door open just enough for her to make out his face and shirt. Not exactly welcoming. _And_ his tone is still icy cold.

“I know I fucked up,” she blurts out, quickly, before she can think any better of it. “I’m really, really sorry. I was an asshole and I shouldn’t have pushed and— I really like you and I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear, I just didn’t think it could be anything that— bad.” He’s looking at her blankly, which doesn’t encourage her much. Still, she got started, might as well get to the bottom of it. “And I guess I wanted to ask you how you want me to— you know, pay you back. For the money for Miles. Thank you, by the way, I don’t think I said it when— well the other day. I mean, I’m assuming you won’t want to have me around anymore, so—” Her eyes fall on the ground as she trails off, because she really doesn’t want to get confirmation from his face that she’s as good as dead to him.

“What’s that for?” he asks, his tone neutral and his face still blank. She raises her eyes in time to notice him nodding at the bottle in her hand.

“Oh, this— peace offering?” she says, tentatively. “It’s whiskey, we started with drinks, so I thought—” His expression is completely unchanged and it’s making her so uncomfortable she doesn’t even find the voice to finish the thought. This was such a bad idea, she should have sent an email asking what he needs her to do for the money. She just wants to get away as soon as possible. “Nevermind,” she swallows, staring at her hands as she offers him the bottle. “Here, take it, I’ll— I’ll just go, and you can call me when you’ve decided what to do about the money, okay?”

He doesn’t take the bottle, so she looks up to meet his eyes. He’s _rolling_ them. Theatrically. She almost starts laughing.

“Get in,” he orders, taking a step back and opening the door for her. She’s not about to ask questions.

He gestures to sit on the couch as he heads to the kitchen to come back with two glasses and a bottle opener. He keeps some distance between them when he sits, but he always likes his personal space. Smart money says that it has something to do with his paranoia and the fact that he’d rather have the advantage in an hypothetical hand to hand combat.

He’d probably be able to kill her in under thirty seconds even if she was pinning him to the ground, but still.

“Thanks,” she says, her voice quite a bit hesitant, as he hands her a glass and takes the bottle. “Really, I am sorry—”

She’s never been good with tense silences, they make her deeply uncomfortable and bring her back to not-so-happy moments of solitude in her life, and another rushed apology is the first thing that comes to mind to fill the blank.

“Yes,” Grant interrupts, his voice neutral, as he fills her glass first. “I heard you the first ten times.”

She hums in acknowledgement, not really sure about what else to say.

He did invite her in: that can only be a good sign. Well, actually, he might want to kill her in a private setting, but why the drinks then? He doesn’t need to incapacitate her to overpower her.

Skye can feel the hope that she hasn’t blown it, not yet, creeping up under her skin: it’s a nice fire, but she’s well aware that giving into its warmth will end with her burning to death if it turns out that she misread the situation – and she’ll be reborn like a damn phoenix only to do it again, and again, because apparently her life is a cycle of hope and loss; how depressing.

“I don’t like to talk about it,” Grant announces, after drinking half of the glass in one sip. “Most of the time, I prefer not to _think_ about it to begin with. So—” He trails off, and she’s not really sure about what he wants to say, but she nods anyway. “You couldn’t have known, though,” he adds, and when she raises her eyes he meets them. And here she goes again with all the hope.

“I should have realized that I was pushing too much, though,” she feels compelled to add, even though it’s counterproductive.

He shrugs. “Maybe you need glasses, but I’m trained to hide that kind of stuff, so— it’s fine.”

She inhales sharply, her stomach twisted on itself, which makes her feel like she should avoid sipping her drink in order not to throw up. She still might throw up. Or cry. Or both. Which is stupid because she’s _not_ the offended party here.

Grant must notice her discomfort, because he calls: “Skye.” He waits until she stops staring at the glass on her lap and raises her eyes on him. “That means apology accepted. It’s _fine_ ,” he adds then.

It’s hard not to get hopeful at that.

She swallows, trying to push back a couple of tears of relief and mistrust – because he’s not the only paranoid person in the house, apparently.

“I—I freaked out a little,” she confesses, her words turning into a humourless chuckle.

“Jemma mentioned it,” he comments. He doesn’t prompt anything more, but she stole a piece of him the other day, and— she trusts him. She feels like he could _understand_.

“I had— a lot of foster families. And I mean, a _lot_. I’ve never spent more than two years _anywhere_ , because it’s like— something bad happens whenever I feel settled somewhere, you know?” She inhales sharply, finding that he’s staring at her intently, listening carefully to every word she says. She doesn’t know if she’s making up the understanding on his face. “I broke a—a crystal decanter once, at a foster family house— pack your bags. Sometimes I managed to make friends at the orphanage— gone.” She chokes on the last word and takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

He waits.

“It was like the universe was just _waiting_ for me to relax for a second, and then— then—”

“It all went to shit,” he completes, an hint of sadness in his voice in spite of the even tone.

“Yeah,” she lets out, her voice thin. “With you, and Jemma— it’s all awesome, it’s _good_ — I don’t really have friends, and— I thought I’d screwed it up.” There’s a pause in which she avoids looking at him. She has never been a big fan of sharing such details.

“Well,” he says, after a few seconds, making her jump a bit on her seat. “Jemma is as stubborn as they come,” he comments, offering a slight grin. “And she really likes you. She won’t let go easily.”

She smiles back, her heart catching in her throat as she dares to ask: “And you?”

He stares at her, thoughtfully. “I don’t trust easily,” he finally states.

Skye would really like to just read it as him implying that therefore, since he trusts _her_ , he won’t give up easily either. She hopes that’s the case – as if hope had ever done anything but biting her in the ass.

“Are you going to make me drink alone?” he prompts, gesturing to her glass as he refills his own.

“Guess not,” she sighs, her lips twisting into a genuinely relieved smile at the lack of ice in his words.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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